


Szkoda

by wolfscrow



Series: TWBingo 2020 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injured Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Protective Peter Hale, teen wolf bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25213066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfscrow/pseuds/wolfscrow
Summary: He catches his reflection before he leaves, the image stark and harrowed. Bags drag at his eyes, skin pale with sleepless nights and blood loss. His bruises and cuts lay against his skin in high contrast, purpling patches and red lines on a white canvas. At this moment he can feel every injury ache and smart. He clenches his eyes shut, but the vision of his battered body remains burned into his retinas.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: TWBingo 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845706
Comments: 12
Kudos: 466
Collections: Kelly's Picks, Peter Stiles Centric, Teen Wolf Bingo





	Szkoda

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the TWBingo2020. Injury square.

The house is empty when Stiles gets back. The lights are off, and a glance at his phone tells him that he’ll have hell to pay when his dad gets home from the station. He slowly climbs out of the jeep, careful of his injuries and wounds. The air inside is stale, with a whiff of whiskey scent under the dust. Sties can see the new bottles lying empty on the kitchen counter. 

With a sigh, Stiles makes his way through the house and up the stairs, taking a detour in the bathroom to change into sweatpants. He moves gingerly, what must be bruised ribs giving him hell every time he does move. Changing clothes takes far longer than it should, and when Stiles is finally done with that he’s too tired to even bother mending to his wounds. 

He catches his reflection before he leaves, the image stark and harrowed. Bags drag at his eyes, skin pale with sleepless nights and blood loss. His bruises and cuts lay against his skin in high contrast, purpling patches and red lines on a white canvas. At this moment he can feel every injury ache and smart. He clenches his eyes shut, but the vision of his battered body remains burned into his retinas. 

He feels puke rush up his throat and, despite the maimed state of his body, Stiles throws himself at the toilet. It burns as it comes up, and Stiles is left gasping after the ordeal. 

When he finally makes it to his room, Stiles feels asleep on his feet, gaze unfocused and mind blurry with the pain. Therefore, it’s not really his fault that he doesn’t notice his midnight visitor until they speak. 

“What a sight _you_ make, darling.” Their voice is nonchalant, but there is an undertone of danger in it.

Stiles jolts where he stands, a surprised noise escaping his mouth before he feels himself start to sink, weak and shaky legs finally giving way to gravity. Quick arms wrap around him, aggravating the damage that has been done to him. His mind is consumed in the electric shock of pain, whiting out his thoughts.

Suddenly, the pain is gone, one moment is an all consuming agony and the next is blissful relief. He comes back to himself laid out on his bed, a hand running over his head and another rubbing a cool gel onto the worst of his bruises. He opens his eyes, but endorphins make his mind muzzy with pleasure, his vision blurry in the feeling. 

Leaning over him, eyes glowing an unnatural blue, is Peter Hale. Peter Hale, who was _dead_ not even a day before, last Stiles had checked. A glance down shows that Peter is rubbing what must be arnica onto his chest, where his ribs had been aching all night. 

“P’er?” Stiles’s voice slurs, soft where he wants to yell. “Wha’re you doin’ not-dead?” 

Peter simply smirks at the questions, expression oddly fond in the low lamp light. Stiles frowns at him, confusion and a wonderful not-pain marring his ability to think. He finds himself raising a hand to Peter’s face, rubbing the corner of his mouth until the smirk is gone. In its place is a gentle smile, which is much more confounding, but Stiles prefers it to the smirk that held smugness in its depths. 

“I think you should be more concerned about who hurt you, sweetheart.” Peter’s tone matches his face, soft and fuzzy in ways Stiles didn’t think possible of him. Stiles waves his hand at the words, knowing that Gerard is in his own world of hurt right now. He feels pricks on his skin, a sharp sensation that draws Stiles’s mind from the blissful pain-free fuzz it had been in. 

“ _Argent_?” The voice is harsh, cold, distracting Stiles from the sharp points pushing at his skin just under his ribs. Stiles furrows his brow before realizing that he’s spoken out loud. “Don’t worry, love”--the pin pricks on his stomach smooth, rubbing softly instead--”He’ll be taken care of soon enough.” Peter’s words are soft again, as bizarre and weird as it is. 

“Now, how about we take care of these.” A hand brushed by a cut on Stiles’s side, the sting barely registering before the pain is gone again. 

“Hm, doesn’ hurt.” Stiles means for it to be a question, but it doesn’t sound like one. He hears Peter chuckles at him, the same fuzzy softness that spans Peter’s face. 

“It’s a wondrous thing, the ability to drain pain from others.”

“You hurt?”

Peter laughs, “No, sweetheart.”

“Mmm, okay.”

The cloudy feeling in his brain seems to grow, spreading to his limbs. It’s that tired feeling, like all Stiles needs is a good full body stretch and he’ll be able to sleep. He turns his face to where Peter sits beside him, eyes closing as a yawn drawls past his lips. A hand drags over the fuzz on his head, before settling on his bruised cheek.

“You’re tired, had quite a night.” Peter speaks softly, though amused and fond in tone. Stiles feels Peter’s hands leave his face as blankets drift up from the end of the bed, laying cooly against his skin. Peter tucks the blankets around him, and Stiles can feel lips brushing his forehead just before sleep claims him. 

+

Peter watches as Stiles slips into sleep, bruised and injured to high heaven. He feels rage simmer in his gut at the sight. Stiles snuffles before curling into the spot Peter had sat on the bed. He can feel a smile tug at his lips. He knows that Stiles will be pain free for most of the night, but will not last. He needs to proceed with his plans quickly, before the pain comes back to bother Stiles in the morning. 

Argent needs to pay for the damage he’s caused. Stiles had done nothing wrong but be acquainted with werewolves, no hunter worth their gun would go after another human. Peter doesn’t give hunters much credit, but that he knows to be true. 

Peter scents Stiles one last time, a brush of fingers against the boy's neck. As he climbs out of the bedroom window, he has one last thought before his anger takes over.

_The hunter becomes the hunted._

**Author's Note:**

> The first of many fics I'll be writing for the twbingo, so look out for those!
> 
> Visit me on tumblr [@newtsnogitsune](https://newtsnogitsune.tumblr.com/)


End file.
